Nightmares and Dreams
by MissDillyDilly
Summary: How far will Stella go to save Mac’s life? Rated T for violence.
1. Chapter 1

**Nightmares and Dreams**

**Summary**: How far will Stella go to save Mac's life? Rated T for violence.

**Disclaimers**: I have made no money from writing this story. I do not own anything connected with any of the CSI franchises, which I assume belong to CBS and its cohorts. I would quite like to borrow Gary Sinise, however… just for a day?

**A/N**: Set during Season 5.

* * *

Chapter 1

Stella Bonasera, naked in the hottest summer she could remember, was sweating freely into the stifling New York night. She had long since flung the clothes from her bed, and tossed and turned restlessly, unable either to sleep or wake.

She became aware, in the milky haze of half-consciousness, of something pressing down on her chest, and struggled to escape: it was suffocating her in the damp, sticky dark, but despite tugging and straining for release, it would not budge. Her frantic efforts finally woke her, and she felt the thing holding her down: it was soft and almost warm, but a dead, dead weight.

She began to panic – what the hell was she trapped beneath? Pushing more recklessly, she finally managed to dislodge it, and it rolled to the other side of the bed, leaving her gasping for air. In her sudden freedom, she felt chilled to the bone.

Turning, she wrapped her arms around herself for warmth and looked at the thing beside her. It lay without motion, lumpy and shapeless in the gathering dawn. As she stared, her eyes became used to the half-light, and it gradually resolved itself into a human being. Stella leapt back in horror: there was no way she'd invited anyone into her bed last night! This was her space, her sanctuary – whoever was here was an invader, a violator of everything that she held dear. She began to shake with more than cold.

But she couldn't just leave it there, lying gross and inert in her apartment. Slowly, walking backwards so as not to let it out of her sight, she moved towards the kitchen. Delicately taking a knife from the block, she grasped the handle in her right hand and made her way back into the bedroom. Half of her hoped it would be gone: the other half dreaded that it should be, for then she would have to look for it. But it was still there, solid and awful and viciously silent.

She approached it, wondering why it didn't move. Male, and as naked as she was, it was as still as an empty grave. Blanking her mind as to what the hell could have happened to bring it here, she reached out her left hand and touched it, quickly withdrawing in case it responded. It was clammy – almost wet – and most certainly lifeless.

She leaned nearer, daring to get close enough to listen for any sound of breathing. In the still night she thought she could have heard a pin drop, but all that came to her ears was the thrum of an early cab far below and a rush of starlings as they flew past the open window. Other than her, nothing breathed: she was the only life here.

Reaching out with more confidence now, she took the body by its chilly shoulder and shook it. There was no response. She shook it again, harder this time, and the mouth fell slightly open, allowing a small breath to escape. She had seen that often enough: the final breath of an already dead man, trapped until the body was moved. Putting the knife down, she took the head in her hands and turned it so that it faced her: who was this cold, dead stranger?

The first ray of sun swept along the street and through the window, and the features leapt cruelly out at her: a Hallowe'en mask suddenly illuminated in the night. Dark hair, full cheeks, straight nose – she knew them, even as they lay slack within her hands, as well as she knew her own.

"Mac? _Mac?"_

She began to slap his face, and his head lolled obscenely to one side. She pressed her cheek to his poor scarred chest, desperate to hear even a whisper of sound: there was nothing. She caught hold of his wrist, but when she let it go it flopped down at his side. He was gone – there was nothing left of the man she – she – of the man she knew except this empty, dead thing.

She looked at his body, lean from years of military service, but still in places soft and yielding to the touch. She ran her hands down his chest and across his stomach, feeling the firm muscles that would never move again, the taut sinews that were now limp and dry. She couldn't prevent her eyes from taking in the rest of him: the beauty of the man, dead as he lay there, took her breath away. Involuntarily, her hand moved, but she snatched it back: she had never touched him so in life, and she would not presume to do so in death.

All the years they had known each other – all the years they had been together – and not once had she touched him as she wished. Other relationships, or her own diffidence, or Mac's emotional barriers – there had always been something in the way. Somehow, she had always assumed they'd have the time: that however long it took, it would never be too late. And now it was: there would never be time again.

Tearing her eyes away, she looked again at his face, wanting to kiss it, to stroke its pale, unmoving smoothness. She noticed, suddenly, that his eyes were open, and that they still had that quality they'd had in life of changing colour with the light. She glanced up at the window: clouds were gathering, and sun and shadow were falling across the room, turning Mac's eyes from almost black to almost green. And then, as she stared, the eyes moved: swivelling in their sockets, they fixed her as surely as if her arms had been pinned behind her back.

She cried out: the shock was too great for silence. Backing off, she realised that the dead gaze was following her: she retreated to the other side of the bed, but still the cold, blank eyes seared across the space between them. She whimpered, and fell.

But Stella was made of stern stuff, and finally crept back to the body, standing as far away as she could and reaching out a hand to close those terrible eyes. The lids, putty-like, sank under her touch, and she breathed with relief. But, as soon as she took her fingers away, they sprang open again, fixing her with their gimlet stare and draining her life away.

"No!" she whispered, and leant forward again. Again, the eyelids closed – and again they sprang open. The only way she could keep from looking into Mac's dead eyes was to keep her fingers on his eyelids. "Close," she whimpered, "please, please close."

They would not.

"Close, damn you – close!"

They would not.

Now she was yelling. "Close – close your eyes! Mac – close your eyes, for God's sake _close your eyes!_" Screaming at the thing lying in her bed – which, whatever it was, she knew now was certainly not Mac Taylor – she lost all control, screwing up her face and flailing in hysteria.

Then she felt something hit her, and suddenly all was calm. Light flooded the room – real, bright, summer sunlight – and she opened her eyes to find that she was lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. Drenched in sweat and shivering with cold, she remained unmoving, not daring to attract attention to herself now that she had escaped that terrible gaze. She looked for the knife, and could not find it. _Damn!_ she thought: her only weapon, and it was nowhere to be seen.

Finally, she lifted her head above the bed to look. If whatever was there was going to kill her, let it try. She would do her best to go down fighting, but she couldn't sit here forever.

Nothing. There was nothing there except creased bedclothes, rumpled and crumpled and twisted almost beyond recognition. Stella staggered to her feet and stared at the empty space. There was no indication that anyone other than herself had ever been there – no dip in the mattress, no knife, no…

No Mac, lying beautiful and dead in her apartment.

Her legs gave way, and she flopped down onto the bed. Glancing again at the place where his body had been, she blinked in the morning sun. On a terrified impulse, she grabbed her cell and dialled Mac's number: it was answered within two rings, and she almost shouted with joy to hear that familiar, loved voice, strong and safe and not a little surprised to be hearing from her at five in the morning.

Assuring him that it was a wrong number, she sat still for a long time, trying to put the world together again, but all she was truly aware of was that the nightmare was over, and that Mac was alive.

And that she had better tell him how she felt before it was too late.

* * *

People die every day. They die because they are stupid, or because they forgot to turn off the gas: some die because they deserve to, and some because they don't. And some are simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, and die because of sheer bad luck. But, most of the time, it happens to someone else. It's always someone else's lover, someone else's sister, someone else's son. The chances it'll be someone you know are one in a thousand – no, one in ten thousand.

But people die every day, and this was the day that Stella was going to find out what it felt like to be Someone Else.

It was just unlucky that Mac pulled the downtown homicide. Stella was already working another case; Danny and Lindsay had left for a robbery in Queens; Hawkes was assisting Sid with an autopsy that required four hands. So it was Mac, whom she had been surreptitiously watching all morning over her test-tubes, who grabbed his coat and his kit, left with a quiet nod, and walked alone into the mouth of hell.

She watched him go: she loved the way he moved, the way his jacket swung out behind him. That was crazy, she thought – he was only walking, for heaven's sake! He stopped to talk with someone, and she caught his profile against the harsh light: it touched his dark hair almost like a halo, throwing his features into strange relief as he spoke. As he finished the conversation, he glanced back at her and smiled, and she quickly looked away. Damn! Had he been aware that she was watching him? She breathed a little more harshly and pursed her mouth in an effort to regain her equanimity. She was deeply embarrassed – this was something she simply didn't do. What the hell must Mac be thinking?

She didn't find out, for by the time she had recovered herself enough to look up again, he had gone.

* * *

It was three hours later – three hours during which Stella had attempted, more or less successfully, to put Mac out of her mind and concentrate on the work in hand – when the call came in. She became aware of a sudden hush in the lab, following by a strange, almost silent rushing sound like that of the sea flowing over small, sharp stones. It rose and fell, advanced and retreated, all the while seeming to get nearer, nearer, nearer…

She shivered, and looked round. People were standing in small, quiet clumps – one or two looked at her and Hawkes, who had escaped from both the autopsy and Sid's salacious stories sometime during the morning.

"Hawkes? What's going on?"

"I don't know." He looked as puzzled as she, but then seemed to see someone across the room and called out. "Flack – hey, Flack!"

Detective Don Flack, who appeared to be heading towards them anyway, crossed the crowded room. One glance at his normally mobile, ironic face told Stella something was seriously wrong. "Flack?"

"There's a hostage situation downtown," he said shortly. "We've got it contained, but…"

"But what?"

"Dave Shepherd. Broke out of Sing Sing three days ago, comes back here and kills and rapes his little sister, flees the scene. Except he doesn't flee the scene, and now he's got a hostage. He's a serial – taken five hostages in the last eight years, and none of them have survived."

"Hang on," Stella interrupted, shaking her head in confusion. "You said killed and raped his sister? Don't you mean – "

"Nope. He killed her, then raped her, then dumped her out the seventh floor window."

"Wow," was all Hawkes could manage.

"Yeah."

There was a moment's silence. "So why're you telling us?" Stella asked. Flack looked awkward, and Stella noticed how pale his face was. "Don?" He met her eyes, and for the first time she knew a flash of fear. "Don?" she whispered again. "Who's the hostage?"

She knew before he spoke: the softness in his eyes, the sympathy in the way his mouth moved before his words came out. "It's Mac," he said quietly. "He's got Mac in the apartment with him, alone."

Stella's world narrowed: all she could see was Flack's huge, distorted face. It loomed at her out of some alien landscape as if she had never seen it before. Everything became very cold: she tried to blink, but could not. There was no sound.

As her breathing slowed, the light came back, and she realised that Flack and Hawkes had closed in on her, as if to protect her from others' prying or sympathetic eyes. "Stella?" Hawkes said softly. "Stell?"

"I'm OK," she said, automatically pushing her wayward hair back from her face. "I'm OK." She leaned against her bench. "Mac – is – was he…"

"He was alive when I left," Flack said bluntly, and she was grateful for his honesty. "Negotiators are on the way – they'll do everything they can."

Stella swallowed. "But you say nothing works with this guy?"

Flack looked at the floor. "Not so far."

Stella's brain, on fire with fear and fury and adrenaline, began – finally – to work. "He raped his sister," she said slowly. "What else has he done?"

Flack thought. "Sexual assault on a female charity worker, interfering with an eight-year old girl, kidnap and rape of homecoming twins, assault on a corpse…"

"Nice guy," Hawkes murmured.

"Yeah."

"Huh," Stella said, "all his victims were women, yes?"

"Yeah," Flack said again, clearly not knowing where she was going with this.

"So Mac hasn't got anything he wants, has he?" Fighting to control the hysteria that would have overtaken a lesser woman, she even managed a trademark smile. Flack's eyebrows went up.

"He wants safe passage out of there."

"No, Flack, he doesn't – he wants control. He wants power. He kills his hostages, yes?" She swallowed the screaming that rose in her throat – she was no good to Mac if she couldn't function, and if these people thought she didn't care, then so be it.

Flack nodded.

"Then we need to get Mac out of there – give him someone else – have a chance of staying alive."

"What do you mean?" Hawkes asked.

Stella turned to him, her professionalism taking over. "He wants a hostage, but Mac's no use – he can't do anything except kill him, and then he's lost his bargaining tool. So he's going to hang onto him until there's no way out, or until he gets something better."

She saw comprehension flash into Hawkes' eyes. "Stella, no…"

"Give him a woman hostage and he'll let Mac go. Then we can negotiate – he'll be on familiar territory, he'll feel more comfortable – he'll begin to make mistakes."

"And the woman will die," Flack said. "Absolutely not, Stella. No way can I sanction that sort of operation – you know that."

"Yeah – but if you had a volunteer? A professional?"

"I can't send anyone in there, Stell."

"You won't have to." She pulled off her gloves, tossed her hair back and began to unbutton her coat. "I'm going whether you 'sanction' it or not."

"You've got no training, no experience," Hawkes objected. "Wait for the negotiators."

She turned to Flack. "How long?"

He looked at his watch. The senior team are in Jersey, helping out there – they've got a junior guy on his way over, but it won't be for a while."

She looked levelly at him. "An inexperienced male negotiator who won't be here any time soon. Sound like a winner to you, Flack?" Flack twisted his face: it was obvious his feelings mirrored Stella's, though he didn't say so. "So that's it then. Me, or no-one. What do they call that? Oh yeah – a no-brainer."

"Stella," Hawkes said quietly, but she could hear the panic in his voice. "He will kill you."

Flack too spoke, even more quietly. "Aiden…" A shared memory leapt between them.

She thought of Mac's eyes: the way they shifted colour – the way they were so constantly alive. She thought of Mac's mouth, straight and strong and – oh! – how much she would have given right now to kiss it. She thought of Mac's beautiful body, moving beneath its clothing, naked in her dream, and wondered how much reality mirrored imagination. Well, now she would never know. And, she thought with a deep, still sadness, it would be a good 'not knowing' – if she had to die to save Mac's life, she could live with that.

"Better me than Mac," she said briskly, looking at them with sharp, steady eyes. "Coming?"

* * *

"I am not happy about you doing this," Flack said heavily, as Stella pulled on her flak vest and fastened its velcro shoulders. "We won't have any idea what's going on in there; we're trying to get a feed through the central vaccing system, but it's not done yet."

They were standing in the apartment building hallway. Other officers stood with them, most dressed as Stella was but – unlike Stella – carrying a range of weapons which she fervently hoped would not be required. If any of those weapons had to be fired, Mac was a dead man.

_Dead and beautiful, in her apartment…_

She shook her head, trying to dispel the image: in the past hour, as she had discovered more about the history behind today's events, it had grown more vivid, rather than fading in the daylight as dreams so often do. Only now her nightmare vision was augmented with imagined blood flowing from a gaping wound where Mac's old scar had burst, and all she could do was stand and watch as his life leaked out before her.

"Stell?" Flack was nothing if not persistent.

She shrugged on her professionalism and tough mental skin like a scratchy winter coat, and tensed her lips. "You've seen his MO, Flack – no hostages have survived, but no male hostages have survived – as far as we know – for more than three hours. Mac's been in there for over two – what chance does he have if we can't get him out of there? 'Hostage guy' won't be here for another – what, thirty minutes? – by then it'll be too late."

"But you know what he does to his victims. If he gets you in there, without a weapon – you're not coming out of there alive. And if you do, you're not coming out of there whole."

She had never seen Flack so intense. "At least I stand a chance of surviving long enough to be rescued," she said quietly. "Whatever he does to me – " her voice faltered slightly, " – whatever he might do, I'll be alive. He's kept female hostages for up to a week." She stopped: the thought of what could happen to her in that week was too horrifying. _For Mac_, she told herself through the panic – _for Mac_. Taking a deep breath she continued, "That's a whole week you have to get me out of there. He'll kill Mac – a man doesn't have anything he wants. I do."

Flack looked at the floor, and when he met her eyes again, she thought she could see unshed tears. "Come on, then," he said brusquely. "Let's do it."

They moved toward the door of apartment 713. As they neared it, Stella suddenly turned to Flack and caught his sleeve. "Don… If – if you have to Mac what happened… Tell him it was purely professional, won't you?" Flack looked puzzled. "Tell him it was just because – just tell him it wasn't personal, OK?"

Flack's eyes softened in understanding. "I'll tell him. It's not too late to change your mind, you know."

Stella looked him straight in the eyes. "What, and know that I have to live without Mac because I wasn't brave enough to help him? No – I can't do that."

"I know." Flack swallowed, then reached forward and kissed her cheek. "I'll tell him."

Stella stared at him for a few moments. _Oh God_, she thought, _he really doesn't think I'm going to survive_.

She was inclined to think that he was right. This was the last thing she would ever do. It was, she reflected as she turned away, a good last thing.

_To be continued in chapter 2_


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

She stepped forward and knocked firmly on the door, knowing that no signs of weakness would be tolerated. Any mistake could cost Mac his life. "Mr Shepherd?" she called. "Dave? I'm a negotiator – may I open the door and talk to you?" She wondered that she could keep her voice so steady: her heart hammered violently, and below her calm outer skin she felt half mad with hysteria.

There was no reply, but she heard a noise. She waited a few moments. "Mr Shepherd? My name's Stella. I'd like to come in. I'm unarmed, and the officers here have all stepped back from the door."

"What for?" The voice was gruff, smoky – but at least it had answered.

Stella glanced at Flack, who had retreated to the end of the hallway.

"I'd like to talk to you," she called. "See if we can't work something out."

"Like what?"

They were already engaged in a dialogue – it was going well, she told herself. It just didn't feel that way, with her on this and Mac on the other side of the door. "I'd like us all to walk away from this sooner rather than later," she said. She knew she mustn't mention life and death. "I'd like to try and help with that, if I may."

There was a pause. "Who are you?"

She creased her brow. "My name's Stella. I'm a negotiator, and I'd like to – "

"How old are you?"

_Here we go_. "Thirty-two," she lied. He might let her in more quickly if she shaved off a few years.

"And what am I supposed to do with this one?"

"You mean Detective Taylor? That's his name – Mac Taylor. You know that if you let him go it would be seen as a generous gesture."

"Suppose I ain't feeling generous?"

"A practical one, then. He's a CSI – it'll go better if he's unharmed."

"You threatening me, _Stella_?"

She cringed at the sound of her name in his mouth. "No. I'm just saying it would relax the guys out here." She drew a breath. "I'm going to open the door, Dave – very slowly, so you can see exactly what I'm doing. I'm not armed, OK? I'm opening it now…"

She turned the key, and the door left its jam with a sighing creak, as if reluctant to acquiesce in her torture and death. _For Mac_, she repeated to herself like a mantra. _For Mac_.

She carefully pushed it wide until she could see into the small apartment. It was neat, bright, and covered in blood. The door opened directly onto the living area, with a kitchen beyond, and after the blood had made its impression, the first thing she saw was the man who sat, alone and still and with his back to her, in the centre of the room.

His hands were secured behind him, and his ankles were tied to two of the five feet of a swivel chair. He seemed to be unclothed save for his underpants, and his head was bowed, though whether from exhaustion or injury she could not tell. He seemed unharmed, though she couldn't see enough of him to be sure.

She began to move forward, acting on instinct: she had to get to him, touch him, hold him… It took all her self-control to rein in the impulse and maintain an expression of neutrality: if she gave even a hint that Shepherd's hostage was more than a casual colleague, she would have given him power – power that he, with his history of sadism and torture, would know exactly how to use. Her heart keened as she tore her eyes away from the man she loved – how could she not have realised such a blindingly obvious fact until this morning! – to look around.

She noted the open window to the left, the whisky bottle on the table, the central vac vent, and the fact that Mac had been thoroughly but clumsily tied with what appeared to be household string. She smelt blood and sweat and consciously blocked them out. She could see through to the bedroom now, and a mass of screwed up linen: that must have been where he'd raped his sister.

Her eyes went back to Mac: he hadn't moved, but she noticed that he was wearing socks. She looked at the polished wooden floor and understood: Shepherd would leave the socks so his victim couldn't run on the smooth surface. OK – she was with him so far…

"You coming in or what?"

"Yeah." Her voice was still firm: Mac would be proud of… She clenched her jaw. Mac _would_ be proud of her. She was here to make sure he had the chance to be proud of her. "I'm stepping into the room now." She raised her arms to make it clear she was unarmed, and moved forward.

As soon as she was clear of the door, it slammed shut: Shepherd had been standing behind it. Slowly, she turned to face him, and saw a nightmare come true.

Dave Shepherd was a big man, but his bulk was made up of fat rather than muscle. He stood three feet away from her, a huge blob of flesh, his hair matted, his stubble unevenly slashed, wearing canvas shoes, a grubby vest and perhaps the filthiest pair of shorts she had ever seen. They were unzipped, and it was clear that he was wearing nothing underneath. He clutched a small handgun, pointed too casually at the floor.

She met his eyes, searching for something – anything – that might give her a way in to the humanity of this person. She saw nothing. The man behind those eyes had long since ceased human living: they were as unseeing as the corpse of his sister, lacking only the terrible cloudiness of death.

Shepherd didn't give her a chance to search for long. "Turn around," he said roughly and, keeping her arms raised, she did so. When she had her back to him, he spoke again. "Stop!"

_Oh God_, she thought – what had he seen? She had nothing on her except the clothes she stood up in – not even a cell. What could have given him offence?

"Bend over."

"What?"

"Bend over!" A sick feeling threatened to rise up within her, but she fought it down. Slowly, she bent forward, letting her arms drop to prevent her from falling. She heard the slap of footfalls, and knew that he was standing behind her. His breathing quickened. "Nice…" She swallowed. Any indignity, any injury – if it got Mac out alive, it was worth it.

She was surprised at how calm the thought made her. The last time she had been trapped in an apartment with somebody bent on murder, she had been so panicked that she had hardly known what she was doing: now, she was calculating every move. She was vaguely surprised at how much difference there seemed to be between the value she placed on Mac's life, and the value she placed on her own.

"Stand up then – let's have a better look." She stood, and turned again. She'd been right: Shepherd stood not six inches away, leering and breathing over her in a way that promised unmistakeable and exquisite horrors. He smelt of fried onions and old beer. So, she thought, he'd been drinking both beer and spirits. How much? Might he lose consciousness soon – or just lose control?

He reached out a hand to touch her hair, and it was almost impossible not to flinch. The reaction was more than a reflection of feeling – it was instinct. By a phenomenal effort of will she remained still, and this did not seem to displease Shepherd, who suddenly gripped her hair and pulled her violently towards him. When less than an inch remained between their faces, and Stella was convinced he was about to kiss her – if that word or anything like it could be applied both to what Shepherd planned to do to her and what she wanted to do to Mac – he stopped.

"You're mine, you know that?" He didn't seem to need an answer, so she gave him none. "You scared?" Abruptly, he let her go, and she staggered back, moving nearer to Mac as she did so.

"Yeah." She knew he would see through a lie. "Aren't you?"

He grinned: his teeth were as revolting as the rest of him. "You see, I got nothing to lose. Death – prison – all the same. You… You got life – his life – and I'll bet there's a man somewhere who likes to play with you when you get home, isn't there? Or – " and his eyes grew hard and, if possible, colder " – a woman. You look the type to have a woman. All legs and attitude." He spat at her, and frothy, greasy liquid ran down her vest.

"I have a man," she began. "We – we like it rough." She heard herself speak, but it was as though the words were coming out of an alien mouth. What the hell was she saying? Who was she describing – Frankie? Certainly not Mac – kind, gentle Mac, who would surely be the most glorious, considerate and exciting lover anyone could imagine. Involuntarily, she sighed, feeling even here a moment of need wash over her. Stress, she knew, did strange things to people: the instinct was inappropriate, but not necessarily incongruous.

But one glance at Shepherd's face showed that her ill-considered speech and action had reached him in a way that mere reason could not have hoped to do. His breathing became shallow and he began to shift his footing; he licked his lips, and looked her up and down in a way she had no words to describe.

"Take off the vest," he said hoarsely.

_So_, she thought, _it starts_. She tried to pretend that she didn't care what happened to her: that only Mac was important. But she did care, and it took all her courage to reply calmly. "OK. Will you let me check that Detective Taylor isn't hurt?" She'd seen enough negotiations to know the drill. Always demand a concession for a concession – it earns respect, and gains objectives.

Shepherd's brow creased. "Vest first."

"OK." She began to peel back the velcro, consciously avoiding the wetness on the vest's front. "Then I'll check him over." She tried to make it last as long as possible, but undoing half a dozen fastenings only takes a few seconds, and in less than a minute her only physical protection against this man lay useless at her feet. She heard him growl.

_Mac – oh God, Mac… For you – worth it for you…_

"I'm going to walk across to Detective Taylor, now," she said, and began to move carefully towards the figure in the chair.

"I'm watching you."

"OK."

She walked around the chair and composed her face into a mask: she had to give Mac a cue, if he hadn't picked it up already, that she was pretending to be a stranger to him.

_Beautiful and dead, in her apartment._

No, beautiful and alive, and she would make sure he remained so. As she approached him, he moaned slightly, and she froze. But he wasn't aware of her: blindfolded and gagged, he'd probably been hit as well, though she could see no evidence of a blow. She'd been surprised that he hadn't reacted when she came in: but now she saw the reason why – he seemed to have been able to work his mouth around the gag so that the material was pulled, thin and cruel, between the edges of his mouth, but there was something thick and white nestling in his ears.

"What the – " she exclaimed without thinking. It looked like glue. "What have you put in his ears?"

Immediately, she regretted the words: her tone had been that of the normal, in-control Stella, and she could not allow herself to be that woman.

"What d'you say?"

She tried to recover. "I'm sorry – I was surprised. There's something blocking his ears. Did you put it there?"

"You respect me, _Stella!_"

"I do – I do! I just – I've never seen anything like that before. What happened?"

"Sealant. That stuff around tubs and showers – filled his ears to stop him listening to me. Shut him up talking, too." He grinned. "Here – shout at him. See if it works."

She looked at the helpless man before her. His head was raised now: he seemed genuinely unharmed except for the indignity of his restraints, and her relief at not even finding a bruise made her momentarily light-headed. "OK. Mac," she said loudly. "Hey – Mac!"

She got a response – but not from Mac. Shepherd was at her side, grabbing her arm and jerking her away from his prisoner with such force that she knew she'd have bruises by the morning. If she survived that long. "What do you mean, 'Mac'? How do you know his name? Why did you call him 'Mac' – you know him, don't you? You little bitch…"

He flung her away from him and pulled back the slide on the gun. "No – wait!" Stella yelled, scrambling to her feet. "I told you his name before. Of course I know who he is – I'd never come in not knowing who was in here! That – " she thought quickly, adrenalin and desperation sharpening her wits " – that would just be rude. That wouldn't show respect."

For a moment, she thought she'd blown it. Then Shepherd's expression changed, and she realised she'd been given another chance. She remembered to breathe again – and then remembered that she'd just saved her life so he could take it later, at his leisure.

_For you, Mac – so that you can live…_ Not once, in all the time she spent with Dave Shepherd, did Stella consider Mac's future agony at knowing she had sacrificed herself for him. It said much about her attitude towards both her boss and herself that the thought never even occurred to her.

"Get over there." Shepherd motioned her away from Mac, towards the bedroom. "Stop – far enough. Right – take off the blouse." Again, the sick feeling rose: again she fought it down. She pulled the top over her head and stood with it in her left hand, hanging down at her side like an accusation, as Shepherd's eyes drank her in.

Stella enjoyed her underwear: she wore good-quality, beautiful clothes because they gave her pleasure. Occasionally, they gave others pleasure too. Now, it was clear they were having the same effect on her captor, who began to rub his shorts absent-mindedly. Stella knew how she looked, and she tried to imagine looking that way for Mac. She imagined his fingers trailing over her body, his mouth following them with subtle, wet kisses, exploring her secret places until she cried out in abandonment and joy.

Then, she knew how to defend herself. No matter what this man did to her body – and she had no doubt that he intended to use it for every purpose he possibly could – in her mind she would only be touched by Mac. When Shepherd hit her, she would imagine Mac's caresses. When his huge mouth was on her, she would imagine melting into Mac's embrace. When he – when he raped her, she would imagine she was opening herself to Mac's desire, giving him all he wanted, all he needed, for ever and ever…

"I'd like to untie Detective Taylor now," she said firmly. Shepherd didn't answer: he was still staring at her cleavage. "I'm going to untie his feet first," she continued. If his feet were free, at least he could run. Though where to was another matter.

"What?" stammered Shepherd, whose continued rubbing at his shorts had resulted in something that left nothing to the imagination.

Stella pretended she couldn't see it. "OK – I'll untie his feet now." She crossed again to where Mac sat and, crouching down, began to pull at the rough knots around his ankles. Immediately the still man sprang into life, wriggling and thrashing within his bonds, keening as loudly as the gag would let him and making it impossible for her to proceed. "Please keep still, Detective," she said, before remembering that he couldn't hear her.

How could she make him understand that she was here for him? Only, always for him… Being this close, seeing his naked skin, so smooth except for that one wound, surrounded by the scent of him, even though it was the scent of pain and fear… Knowing what might be ahead for her, she breathed him in and counted it as one of her happiest moments.

She glanced at Shepherd and saw that he was oblivious to her, to Mac, to anything but his own gratification. The gun was still in his free hand – she had no chance of making it across the distance between them in the few seconds of ghastly activity that remained. But she could warn Mac.

How – how? She did the only thing she could think of that Dave Shepherd most certainly would not do: she kissed him. On the right cheek, just below the blindfold, on the soft skin above where his beard would grow. She let her lips linger for just longer than a common greeting: it would be, she thought, the last time she did so.

He tensed, and drew in a quick breath: she had to stop him crying out, or they were both dead. Silently, she placed two fingers across his parted lips: he had to know by the touch that they didn't belong to Shepherd. Abruptly, he froze, then let his breath out slowly, as if he understood the need for silence. She looked at his face, distorted beneath its restraints, but still – in her eyes – the most beautiful face she'd ever seen.

Aching to kiss him again, she beat down the feeling and finished untying the muddle of poorly-executed knots that bound his ankles. Then she stood, resting her hand on his shoulder in a final gesture of affection. "He seems to be fine," she said in a voice a little too loud for the room: she didn't dare look at Shepherd for fear of what he might still be doing.

But Shepherd's moment of self-indulgence was over: he had wiped his hand on his stained shorts, and was once again staring at her. "What d'you expect?" he growled: his activities clearly hadn't improved his mood, but she realised, with a flash of relief, that they might have given her a little more time. He'd hardly be likely to start raping her if he couldn't finish…

She shuddered, then remembered herself and stood up straight and strong. She had once said to Sid that she separated people into mind, body and spirit: well, all this animal would get was her body. Her mind was clear and her spirit was her own.

And Mac's, if he would have it.

She turned aside from the thought: it was too painful to bear. "I'd like to get him to safety," she said. "Everyone will be a lot more relaxed once he's out of here."

"You mean your life ain't worth that much?"

"I mean that I'm a trained negotiator, and he's not. And as far as I'm concerned, that makes all our lives worth the same." She paused. "I want to walk out that door, Dave, and I want you to walk out of it too. And, if we can talk things through, there's no reason why that can't happen."

His lip curled, and he blinked. Reaching behind him, he took another mouthful of whisky, and wiped a hand sloppily across his mouth. Afterwards, his lips were still obscenely moist. "How you going to make me happy enough to do that, then?"

Stella reflected that she'd already made him happy once. She looked him in the eyes. "I'm sure we can find a way."

He seemed taken aback by her reply, and its subtle implication of a shared, unspoken knowledge. She thought she saw him relax. "So if I said I wanted a million in used bills and free passage out of here, you could do that for me?"

Stella grinned, as though she sympathised. "It's a starting point. How about a transfer to a better facility and some extra privileges?"

The words were scarcely out of her mouth before she realised how far she'd miscalculated. Shepherd was across the room in less than a second, moving unbelievably fast for such a big man, slamming her against the wall with his anger and momentum. He held her there, one arm under her chin and the other pinning her wrist above her head: she grabbed at him with her free hand, but he was far heavier and stronger than she was and the struggle was hopeless.

"Don't fuck with me," he hissed, his breath thick and salt in her face. "You mean nothing – nothing, Stella – I kill you and they'll just send another one in. And you know? – I kill him, they do the same. You – are – worthless. You got that?"

Stella could barely gasp a response before he dropped her and she collapsed to the floor. Her head was burning from the blow, and her throat felt sore and bruised. Worse, she knew she had lost ground in this war of attrition they were waging, and would now have to fight back with increased subtlety and guile. She shook herself, trying to clear the fog that clouded her eyes, and fire flashed through her. She dropped her head, aware that she probably had a concussion, but knowing that the last thing she could afford was rest.

As her eyes focussed again, she noticed a small movement at her right hand side: Flack had finally got the feed through the vaccing system and would now, presumably, be aware of everything that happened. Great, she thought – my very own snuff movie.

The thought was not a comforting one.

Leaning on her right hand, she gathered her senses. Freeing Mac, letting Flack know what was going on – they were the priorities.

Slowly, she stood. Mac's head was twisted round – he must have been aware of the activity behind him, feeling the vibrations travelling through the floor but wisely keeping quiet. He must also, she thought, be terrified, though his face showed only confusion: he knew someone in this room was on his side, but he could not know when, or if, anyone planned to strike or kill him. Somehow she had to get this situation resolved sooner rather than later: Shepherd was obviously far more volatile than she had imagined, and her next mistake could be her last.

He sat on the little table by the window, cradling the gun next to his crotch. The symbolism was clear. Casually, he raised it and pointed it at her. "You wind me up again – boom!" She winced. But her brain was working again, and his action had allowed her to get a clear view of the weapon: as far as she could tell it was a P11 or PF-9, designed for concealment and therefore with a limited number of rounds in the magazine. She tried to remember how many each carried, and couldn't.

Without warning, Shepherd yanked back the slide, pointed the gun at the wall and fired. She felt the bullet breeze past her, and ducked in panic as shards of hot plaster flew through the air. Then he was shouting, almost out of control in the confined space of the apartment. "That's how easily I can kill you, bitch! That's how easily I can kill him! So don't mess me about – OK?"

"OK," she shouted back, desperate that Flack should hear before he gave the order to storm the place. "OK." She raised her voice further. "No-one's been hurt – we're cool in here. Dave – we're cool, right? Detective Taylor's fine – I'm fine – you're fine."

She watched him step back from the brink, and slowly lower the weapon. One less bullet, she thought – one less bullet. It was something.

"You're going to do what I want now," he growled. "You owe me. Never, ever, treat me like a fool again."

"I apologise. But – " the gun wavered " – I think it's unlikely you'll get a million dollars. I'll be honest with you, Dave – it's a lot of money."

"I don't want money."

Now she was confused: nothing this man said could be relied on. And without consistency, her job would be impossible. She must provide consistency for them both. If he thought she was reliable, it might give him a measure of stability. She had to hope: it was all that Mac had. "OK – so what can we offer you?"

"What do you got?"

"I'll probably be able to offer you a lot more than otherwise if you free Detective Taylor."

"Detective Taylor, Detective Taylor!" he mimicked. Always on about damned Detective Taylor! Why don't I put a bullet through Detective Taylor's head and take him out the reckoning, huh?"

Stella screamed: but only in her mind. "Because that would bring NYPD through that door all guns blazing."

"So where were they just now, huh?"

"Why d'you think I yelled that we were cool?"

He considered. Then he released the slide, and she breathed again. "Let's see what's underneath the pants," he said abruptly.

Stella blinked: although dressed in only her bra, pants and stilettos, she'd somehow forgotten that this seemed to be part of the deal. She tried to repeat her mantra – _for Mac, for Mac_ – to herself, but now the words seemed to have lost their meaning. All that was left was action. She unbuttoned her belt, and saw him lick his lips. "I'll need something from you," she said firmly, surprised that her voice was so flat and cold.

"You don't bargain!" he snapped.

"I'm just being fair," she said evenly. "And if you show you're fair with me, they'll be more inclined to provide what you want."

"Do it," he said, motioning with the gun. "Then ask."

"I want Detective Taylor on his feet."

"I said do it!"

"OK – just wanted you to know." She slipped off her shoes, aware of her immediately lessened height. Running her hand down the zipper, she eased the pants off her hips: they cascaded to the floor in a waterfall of fabric, and as she delicately stepped out of them, she almost wanted to laugh. She had never been so frightened in all her life: not of death, for that was a certainty now, but of what would come before. The thought that this was all for Mac – _all worth it, for Mac_ – no longer calmed her. She began to shake.

"Put the shoes back on." She did so, feeling ludicrous and tawdry. Then she turned towards Mac. "I didn't say you could move!" Shepherd barked.

She looked at him levelly. "If they see you're a man of your word, they'll respect you for that. You're much more likely to get what you want if they trust you." Did he, she wondered, believe this stuff she was saying? Did he view himself as in any way trustworthy? Self-delusion – what a wonderful thing.

As she walked across the room, she flicked her eyes at the hole in the wall, and saw the little snout of the feed follow her: Flack was keeping up with the show. Turning back, she touched Mac's shoulder, stood in front of him and, a hand on each arm, helped him to stand. It was difficult – the chair moved erratically on its castors – but he finally staggered to a standing equilibrium. Keeping one hand on him to steady him – she shied away from any other explanation – she again pressed the other to his lips. The less proactive he was, the better: if Shepherd saw him as no threat, his chances of escape improved dramatically.

"I'm going to walk you towards the door, Detective," she said conversationally. She knew Mac couldn't hear her, but Shepherd and Flack could. Slowly, she guided him round the chair: there was nothing now between him and freedom save the longest eight-foot stretch of floor in the world.

An eight-foot stretch of floor now blocked by Shepherd.

"I didn't say he could walk!"

Stella pursed her lips: time for a bit of assertion. Her head was pounding furiously, and she was beginning to feel faint and sick: it was important to bring this to a conclusion now, before she passed out and it was all for nothing. "We need to move on, Dave. You know it and I know it. Once he's out of here, you and I can negotiate properly – no distractions."

He ran his eyes up and down her almost-naked body. "I like the distractions."

"Yeah. Listen, work with me, OK?" Overcoming her revulsion, she reached out a hand and touched his wrist. "You'll get concessions. And no cops in the way."

After a few seconds that lasted a lifetime, he nodded, and Stella felt almost giddy from elation. He walked around Mac until he stood behind Stella, and she felt the dank coldness of the pistol against her inner thigh. "Move!" he hissed.

She did so, one hand on Mac's arm and another resting on his waist. She tried to take in the sensation of his naked skin, but her vision was beginning to blur, and she felt largely numb. It would soon be over, she told herself – and then there would be no more pain: no more fear, or love, or anything at all.

But Mac would be safe, and if she died, that was the knowledge she would hang on to. She would fight for her life, but once he was on the other side of that door she had achieved what she came here to do. She stumbled slightly: she had to stay conscious just a few more minutes…

The door drew nearer. She reached past Mac to open it, acutely conscious even in her pain of skin against skin. She ached for his touch – but she ached for his life more. Her hand on the catch, she called out. "Detective Flack? I'm opening the door – can your men stand back, please? Detective Taylor's coming out." Her heart beat fast: they were so close. So close…

Flack's voice echoed back, slightly muffled. "We're away. Send him out."

Turning the handle – hearing the click of the lock – tugging the door wide – stepping back so that she was once again between Mac and Shepherd. Feeling the gun against her, calling out that Mac was deaf, dumb and blind, pulling the poorly-tied string from his sore wrists – pushing him forward, step by step, to life and freedom. Being level with the door – seeing Flack's shadow – snatching one last touch as Mac's hands came free – hearing Shepherd yell, the slide pulled back, Flack moving, diving, turning, firing…

It was all over in less than five seconds, but to Stella it played out in hideous, inevitable slow motion. Hearing the slide, she knew that Shepherd had been playing her all along – fool that she'd been – and meant to kill them just as they reached the threshold of freedom. A dam of hatred burst within her, and with strength she hardly knew she had she shoved Mac forward, slamming his shoulder blades with the flats of her hands, grateful that he'd be able to break his fall and escape a broken nose.

Flinging herself aside, trying to pull Mac out of the direct line of the doorway, she yelled at Flack, already there and firing over her head as she fell. The world was full of pain and noise and movement: something wet sprayed across her back, and she was kicked, over and away from Mac, losing that precious contact. Furious shouting, the thunder of gunshots, a thud, footsteps, someone grabbing her, pulling her away, desperately struggling to be free – oh God, did he have her after all, where was Mac, where was Mac, Mac, Mac, Mac…

She began to scream, and couldn't stop.

The slap across the face confirmed it: no-one else would assault her like that. Shepherd had got her, but damn him, she was going down fighting! She spat, heard an exclamation, and opened shocked eyes to see Flack staring at her with an indescribable expression on his face. She gasped, her mouth opening and closing incoherently, gagging on memories and bile, shaking and screaming and hanging on to him to stop herself from falling.

He was shouting, trying to get through the wall of hysteria that had finally closed in on her. He shook her, perhaps more violently than necessary, but as she stared at him her common sense began to return, and she found herself panting and shaking, her head spinning from terror and pain, her legs weak beneath her as she realised that, by some impossible miracle, she was alive and free. Flack pulled her to him, and she felt friendly arms gather her up, safe and warm and giving her a future.

But Mac… Mac, for whom she had done all this, without whom it would all be worthless: where was he? She tried to look behind Flack, but he moved to block her gaze. "Mac – Mac – Don, where is he? Mac – Don, please! Where is he? Is he – is – Mac!" She was incoherent in her terror.

"Come on, Stell," Flack said, ignoring her disjointed words. "Paramedics, over here! Suspected concussion – think she's OK apart from that."

Hands taking her from behind, guiding her away from hell, straining to look over her shoulder, medics kneeling on the ground, surrounding something flat and inert, blood – oh God, so much blood, everywhere – arterial spray across the hall…

"Mac!" she yelled, fighting her new captors but too weak to overcome them. Her eyes flooded with hopeless, bitter tears, and she was suddenly, violently, sick. She heard someone screaming. Mac was gone, gone, gone…

"_No…"_

The world came to an end.

_To be concluded in chapter 3_


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Stella stood on the balcony of Mac's apartment, gazing over the bright, illuminated landscape of New York. Every light in the city seemed to be ablaze: the sky was clear and moonless, and the fantastic light pouring upwards from thousands of buildings drowned out the stars. Tonight's glory was all of the human kind.

The night was warm, though not humid: her short, lawn dress was quite different from the business clothes she had been forced to peel off for Shepherd, and she felt open and free. Even Mac had succumbed to the heat, she noticed, not wearing his ubiquitous vest and actually untucking his shirt so that it hung loose around his hips. She thought of his smooth, soft skin, so available to her touch before, so hidden now. She longed to run her hands over his stomach, his back – to rest her fingers lightly on his waist as she had when she thought she might have just minutes to live. It would take such a small movement to slip her hand beneath the fabric: but it was a movement she would never make in the real world, not without permission.

Permission that, so far, had not been granted.

It was two weeks since the ghastly events downtown: two weeks during which she had been treated for concussion and shock and Mac for a bullet graze to the cheek, while Sid had taken an unprofessionally malicious pleasure in performing the autopsy on Dave Shepherd, pulling thirteen bullets out of him and enjoying every one. Mac had tried to haul her and Flack over the coals for putting themselves in danger but it was obvious his heart wasn't in it: he'd finally given up the official line and simply hugged them both, his eyes bright in a rare show of uncontrolled emotion, his voice breaking slightly as he tried to find the words to thank them. He'd sat silently in his office with her for hours, and she had allowed him to do it, wanting – selfishly, she knew – more, but understanding that he needed to find his own way through the horror.

He had sat thus in the hospital too, as she lay unconscious and unknowing, staring at her and wondering why he deserved such love. He had seen the footage from Flack's makeshift video: it could only have been love or madness that prompted Stella's actions, and he found his eyes and his heart overflowing with emotions that, he finally realised, had been within him for years, unrecognised and unacknowledged and now demanding release.

Stella knew nothing of this: she only knew that he had never been so gentle or thoughtful, so wanting to be near her, as he had been since she returned to work – too soon, of course, but what did he expect? They had shared a drink, a meal, and now an evening, and Stella couldn't remember when she had last been so nervous, uncertain and happy.

She heard Mac moving in his kitchen, tidying crockery and cutlery away and – she hoped – uncorking another bottle of wine. She wasn't usually a great drinker, but this evening she had been in such a strange, muddled state that she had drunk a generous half of the first bottle before she knew it. Now, finding herself growing slightly giddy with alcohol and emotion, she craved more.

It hadn't been at all the sort of evening she had expected. When Mac had suggested they have dinner, it had been no more than they had done many times before: but when she realised that he meant a dinner he had cooked, in his apartment, she knew something had changed. Like her, he guarded his privacy fiercely: for him to invite someone into his personal space was a very big deal indeed. So, stepping over the threshold and into the immaculate yet welcoming room, she was prepared for almost anything.

What she hadn't been prepared for, ironically enough, was nothing.

The meal had progressed as most of their previous meals had done: shared memories, serious discussions about ethics and morality, and flippant discussions about friends and colleagues. They had talked about Claire, and Frankie, and even Peyton, who Mac was never comfortable discussing, and Mac had seemed of the decided opinion that Stella's current single state was a good one. Whether his own state reflected or contradicted hers, he had not said.

The food was delicious: something Thai of Mac's own devising, and complemented by the crisp white wine which flattered both the cook and his cooking. Mac was courteous, funny – in the way he only ever was when they were alone – and kind, but that was all, and by the time she had walked to the balcony as he cleared the dishes, she was obscurely disappointed.

Standing in the evening warmth, she chided herself for expecting so much. What was she thinking – that just because she had realised her feelings for him, he would automatically discover similar feelings for her? Her nightmare-born resolution had faded in the devastating light of events in Shepherd's apartment: he had come so close to dying, at her hands and despite everything she had done to keep him safe, that she no longer felt sure of anything, least of all the impulse, so clear to her before, that she should tell him she loved him.

Normally so decisive, this crisis of confidence unsettled her. For the first time since she'd been a little girl and discovered that as a kid with no parents she had to do everything for herself, she wished someone else would take control.

She looked again at the landscape before her, taking in the dark lines of long, straight avenues, the choppy little voids that meant parks or gardens, and the graceful sweeping rise of some of the city's tallest buildings as they soared above older, stumpier blocks below. The variety of colours was amazing: reds and oranges vied with blues and whites in astonishing intensity, but her favourites were the rare shades – the greens and purples that touched the sky only infrequently, lending their subtle grace notes to the music of the artificial fires below.

It was too beautiful to watch alone, and she ached for Mac's company. The sounds from the kitchen had ceased, so he must be nearly done. And when he was, would she tell him then? What would she say? How could she say it? _Mac, I love you. Mac, I need to tell you. Mac, there's something I have to say. Mac, Mac, Mac…_

"Mac." She whispered the word aloud, then realised that she was speaking. She cringed, embarrassed despite being alone. At least, she thought, he hadn't heard.

But she was wrong. There was a movement behind her: he must have been standing there quietly for some time. "I'm here, Stella. I'm always here for you – you know that."

She knew. He'd told her enough times: had he, she suddenly wondered, been trying to tell her something more? All those invitations to stay when she'd needed a space: invitations that she had spurned in favour of hotels or other friends? All those wasted years…

"Come and look at the city," she said. She'd lived here all her life, but it still took her breath away. "I can never get over how beautiful it is."

She heard footsteps, then his voice, soft and close behind her. "Right now, it's the most beautiful place on earth." His words didn't entirely make sense, but she felt his breath stir her hair.

She wished he would touch her, but Mac's demeanour during the past fortnight had been that of a concerned friend and grateful colleague, not a romantic lover. Perhaps he was psyching himself up for a first move.

Perhaps he didn't care at all.

She was momentarily off guard, or she never would have whispered his name again. But the emotional roller-coaster had taken its toll, and Stella's shell wasn't yet entirely rebuilt.

"Mac…"

In response, as if he had been waiting for her confirmation, he slipped his arms around her waist, leaning into her so that his face was buried in her hair. The warmth of his body, so strong and so close, went through her like sudden fire, and she gripped the railing to steady herself. Not that she would have fallen: he held her too tightly for that. She felt his breath on her cheek as he leaned forward to speak.

"I'm still here," he whispered. "You OK?" He smelt of lemon grass and wine, and her stomach turned to water.

"Yeah." The reply was automatic – typical of Stella the powerful independent woman who didn't want to be beholden to anyone. But although her mouth formed the word, no sound came out, and it occurred to her through her sudden dizziness that something more might be required. Trembling, unsure even now, she wrapped her arms around his, feeling the muscles and sinews beneath her fingers with something like wonder. Was this really happening at last?

Instead of trying to speak again, she turned within his embrace and, slipping her arms beneath his, hugged him to her as tightly as she could. Acutely aware that nothing stood between her hands and his skin save his thin, summer shirt, she rested her head on his shoulder, and felt him shift as he encompassed her in a living cage from which she never wanted to be set free.

She closed her eyes, feeling no need for words. This was all so – different… She hadn't felt this way with Frankie, even before he'd unravelled; she couldn't remember feeling this way with anyone. Was she so fickle – or was her memory so false? Surely – surely this wasn't the first time, in all her life, that she'd actually been in love? And if it was, how would she know?

A shiver suddenly ran through her: to think, that she had nearly lost this man… She gripped him tighter.

"Hey," he said. "If you keep doing that, I'm not going to be able to breathe."

"Oh!" Guiltily, she let him go, and would have stepped back except that he still had his arms around her.

He grinned – one of those rare, unselfconscious grins that lit up his whole face with soft, enduring flame. The bullet graze was hardly visible now: just a scratch, as though he'd been playing with a particularly boisterous kitten. He loosed one hand, and began to stroke her hair, running his fingers through its thick curls until she thought she might go mad with the sensation. Setting her back a little so he could see her face, he asked, "How do you manage this mop, Stella?"

She smiled, loving the fact that they were so close, but still unable to resist being mischievous. "I'm fussy about who I use as a comb." There was a moment's silence, and then she remembered Shepherd rubbing his greasy hands over her hair, and liking what he felt. She turned cold.

"Stella?" Mac still held her hair in his hand – a world away from the gesture that Shepherd had made, but not so divorced from it that she had been able to avoid the memory.

She buried her head in his shoulder once more, not wanting to be strong. "Shepherd," she mumbled.

"What?" Gently, he lifted her face clear. "What is it?"

"He – he did that. He touched my hair."

She felt Mac grow still. "You said he never touched you."

"My hair – just my hair. Oh God – my hair…"

Instead of speaking, Mac raised the handful of curls to his lips and kissed it. Then he took another, and kissed that too. He worked his way around one side of her head and, when that was done, moved to the other. By the time he had finished, she felt he had kissed every curl she had. Dropping his hands back to her shoulders, he looked at her steadily. "All gone now," he said softly. "Washed away. Better?"

Stella stared at his eyes, dark in this uncertain light, and felt tears beginning behind her own. Suddenly, from nowhere, she felt scared. This was all so new…

But Mac was still speaking. "I want you to make me a promise, Stella" he said, and his voice was deep with emotion. She gazed into his eyes and felt like a little girl. "Never, ever, no matter what the situation, do that for me again." Something in her was strangely hurt, and she dropped her gaze. "No, Stella – listen to me. I – you know I'm no good at this stuff – if I ever lost you…" His voice cracked, and the sentence trailed off into nothingness. He tried again. "What I mean is, if it had all gone wrong in there – God forbid, but if it had – I – " he swallowed, clearly finding this an ordeal. "I don't think I'd want to go on if I lost you. I – I've already lost one woman I loved. I couldn't stand to lose two." His voice had dropped to barely a whisper, but she heard every word. And then, as if he couldn't bear the sight of her any longer, he pulled her to him again, burying his face in her now cleansed and beautiful hair.

Stella processed his words as best she could: the physical effects of being held so closely by the man she desperately wanted to make love to were beginning to cloud her mind. But she understood enough to realise that Mac was lost here: capable or not, she had to take the initiative, so she'd better get her feet back on the ground and running again.

She tore herself away from the close contact. She saw the question in his eyes – the worry that something he had said had angered or upset her – but she saw too the struggle to veil his fear. Even now, he was trying to be strong.

But she was stronger: toughened by years of self-reliance and the power of her love, she knew she could carry them both. She cupped his face in her hands, framing his features in her long, fine fingers, and leant forward to kiss him. Pressing her lips to his, she prepared to pour herself into him, to fill him up with her love – but was met with an impenetrable barrier. Opening her eyes and drawing back in confusion, she saw that Mac's lips were clamped tight shut, proof against any gentle invasion of hers.

Did he not want her? After all that he'd just said, did that mean he didn't love her? Or just loved her as a friend? She felt suddenly sick: had she misjudged everything, and ruined it all? "Mac?" she whispered. "What's wrong?"

He was breathing shallowly and trembling slightly, but he still held her like a lover. Without thinking, she slipped her hands beneath his shirt, pressing them to his broad, cool back. His skin was as beautiful as she had remembered, and she drank in the sensation like wine, making her light-headed with elation and disbelief.

She felt his muscles flex beneath her fingers in an involuntary response to her touch. Slowly, his gaze focussed on her again, and his lips opened slightly. She knew he was about to tell her some fundamental truth, and almost dreaded what she might have to hear. He muttered something: but she didn't catch it, and he had to repeat himself.

"I'm scared."

She looked at him in amazement: this powerful, authoritative man, scared? Of her? With infinite tenderness, as one might speak to a terrified child, she asked, "Why?"

"I can't make this work. I'm no good at this kind of thing."

"You were good at it with Claire."

She saw the softness leap into his eyes. "Claire was good at it."

"I'm good at it." His face showed his scepticism. "With you. I'm good at it with you."

She let that sink in, and saw it work its way through his frightened, muddled brain. His brow creased. "With me? Can you – can you really… You could have anyone, Stella."

"I don't want anyone," she said, with perhaps a little more acerbity than she'd intended. "I want you." Her voice softened. "I want _you_, Mac – I…" Here was the moment, suddenly arrived, and she wasn't prepared for it at all, but had to plough on because if she stopped now it would never come again. "I love you – I think I've loved you for years, but I've only just found out." She shook her head, trying to lighten the mood, desperate not to trap him in a place from which rejection would be his only escape. "How dumb is that?"

He swallowed. "I think maybe we've both been a little blind." He began to stroke her face, her hair – to caress her back, and run intense, hungry eyes over her body. She was dizzy with the sudden, solid knowledge that he wanted her, and without thinking reached down to touch him through his pants. As she did so, she realised that this was the first time, in reality or imagination, that she had ever dared do such a thing: and she found to her shock that, diffident as he was, he was entirely ready for her. The knowledge sent twisting waves through her stomach in a visceral reaction of need.

At her touch, a small whimper escaped him, and his eyes half-closed in something like ecstasy. His breathing became ragged, and his hands on her body more urgent. "Come here," she whispered. "I want to kiss you."

He looked into her eyes as if seeking a final confirmation before unlocking the door to his soul. He must have found what he sought, for when Stella's lips touched his, he opened himself to her completely, and she sank into him, losing herself in his need and his passion, plumbing the deepest pit of animal lust and soaring to the heights of angelic ecstasy.

She heard a moaning within the kiss, and realised that the voice was hers.

When they broke apart, he held her to him and murmured wordlessly into her hair. Then, looking at her with a wild, untamed mixture of love and lust, he moved away, holding her hand. "Stella…"

His eyes were as black as the night around them, reflecting the lights of New York behind her like stars, and his smile was a mixture of shyness and desire that melted her heart. She stepped forward, away from the balcony and towards somewhere that a part of her had dreamed of finding for fifteen years. His face had an expression of wonder, as if he could hardly believe what was happening: he looked happy, vulnerable, and young.

As she followed him into the dark, she thought that she had never seen anyone so beautiful.

* * *

Stella Bonasera, naked in the hottest summer she could remember, was sweating freely into the stifling New York night. She had long since flung the clothes from her bed, and tossed and turned restlessly, unable either to sleep or wake.

She became aware, in the milky haze of half-consciousness, of something pressing down on her chest, and struggled to escape: it was suffocating her in the damp, sticky dark, but despite tugging and straining for release, it would not budge. Her frantic efforts finally woke her, and she felt the thing holding her down: it was soft and almost warm, but a dead, dead weight.

Grunting with the struggle to get free, she became aware that it was moving, and as she pushed at it in her panic, it moaned. She froze. Not again. _Dear God, not again…_

And then, like monsoon rain at the end of a dry season, she remembered, and sighed in relief. Mac – the thing weighing her down was Mac – beautiful, groggy-with-sleep-and-exhaustion Mac…

Mac, who not six hours ago had become her gentle, longed-for lover.

She lay back on the pillows and stared at the ceiling, a grin as wide as the Brooklyn Bridge on her face. Mac's head was heavy on her shoulder, his arm flung across her waist, his breathing quiet with contentment. She twisted slightly beneath him, and cradled his body against hers: his tenderness and care had overwhelmed her, and his skill and subtlety had taken her on a journey the like of which she had never known. She wanted to laugh out loud at the unexpectedness and astonishment of it all.

The man beside her stirred: she must have disturbed him in her semi-conscious panic. He lifted his head and clumsily propped himself up on half an elbow so he could look at her. "Hey," he whispered, stroking her damp face and pushing away wet strands of hair. "How you doing?"

She bit her lip and grinned. "Pretty good. You?"

"Pretty good." He paused. "Is there dirt on my face?"

"What? No."

"You're laughing at me."

Her grin became wider, and she wrapped her arms around him. Memories of the previous night swirled through her mind in glorious, jewel-rich colours, and she shuddered as the remembered sensations became almost physical again. She shook her head. "Did I tell you at any stage last night that I love you?"

Now it was his turn to grin. "Several times."

"Ah – good. Wouldn't want you to forget." She kissed his forehead, finally wriggled out from under him, and turned over. "Going back to sleep now…"

He kissed her shoulder, and settled her against him. "Sweet dreams, Stella," he whispered. "Sweet dreams."

_The End_


End file.
